


skorpiós

by emmamere



Series: a gathering of abnormalities (hxh) [9]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Lowkey arab au, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 08:21:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14930642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmamere/pseuds/emmamere
Summary: Kurapika knows none but an arid valley with rock sides so tall it seemed a canyon. He was never allowed to leave, and leave it he did but once.





	skorpiós

The boy buried them.

By the time he reached the desert, the dirt had made a mold around his forearms, and he rubbed them against the sand until they cracked and crumbled.

His eyes felt sore. They were still discolored.

Nonetheless, he ran. The sun bore down on him, parching his throat and burning his skin. He made no attempts at shielding himself from it, though; that, he did not deserve.

He ran until he fell and prayed with vigor that he could run twice as far when he woke.

-

He makes it to Dras-Reulga, through some thwart of fate.

Security is forgiving and passage to the interior is simple. Once in, he does not pause to admire the tall and splendid castle, nor the meticulous design of the upper-class places, nor even the spanning dijon walls that flank it all but do not loom. Such would be an nonessential delay, and those he cannot afford.

He stops for an unfortunate amount of time by a faucet in the ground, figuring that at least a taste of water is necessary. Those who wait with him are mostly ragged children. The ones who can invest in a proper well, do.

His robes are bright and distinctive and his sorry mop of hair visible; this leaves him the recipient of wary stares from herds of white-robed residents with customary covers of the head. He knows, though, that the object of his search wears no such things, and ignores them. 

He finds not the man in question, but his equally dross hovel. A knock sounds - the manner a habit and nothing more. There is no response.

"Are you Izunavi?"

"If so, I would like to become your disciple."

The curtain diverts and the hard-lined face of a man who hadn't been called as so in some time emerges. 

"And you?"

The boy's brown eyes still bear a glimpse of red.

"The last survivor of the Kurta, who were slain a  fortnight past. Or..Kurapika, I suppose."

A solemn look crosses. "That'll do."

-

They cannot train in the city or in the sand. Application is not achieved that way, says Izunavi.

Kurapika complies and follows him for a fair number of leagues; his feet, soft from the spoilings of his clan, quickly blister, but he gives no complaint and his master does not look for one.

He is amazed to see the change after only a few days' travel. The geography warps from sand that never seems to conclude to greenery much the same.

Kurapika knows none but an arid valley with rock sides so tall it seemed a canyon. He was never allowed to leave, and leave it he did but once.

"I never thought that such a grand forest existed."

"Many greater ones do," Izunavi chuckles.

The older falls to the grass and lays there, arms in a triangle to the back of his skull. Kurapika bristles and remains firm on shaky limbs.

"Don't be a fool, boy. Swordsmanship, martial art, poisonmaking, whatever you seek, I will teach it to you." 

Izunavi tilts his head as the wind blows to avoid the verdant strands that would otherwise tickle his cheeks.

"Whatever your mission may be, it can surely wait a evening, can it not?"

No, it cannot - is what he would like to say, and his abomination of himself grows as he yields.

-

Kurapika wakes to an orange-stricken sunrise. It breaks through the frail canopy and dapples his face, enthralling him for a long, comfortable moment.

Then the spell is broken and he hurries off to find Izunavi.

The other is filling their waterskins by a stream and gives a grunt of acknowledgement as Kurapika stands behind him. 

"Before we start, what is your intent?" 

Kurapika blinks. "Is it not obvious?"

Izunavi sighs and pockets his pouch. "Yes, but I had hoped that you had some sense."

"Revenge is the most sensible of paths after what I have seen," sneers the boy.

"So you would conform to the will of the enemy?" Izunavi scoffs. "If you find yourself with an arrow in your side, who will be left to remember the Kurta?"

Kurapika begins to argue but cannot - the words have left him. His rage is the justification, and it cannot be described.

His fists clench the yale-blue cloth of his tribal garb. He recalls the denouement of his horrific return, just days ago, a crude, smeared blot of a spider on an otherwise white flag.

"I can't just..let it go." 

Kurapika is met with disbelief. 

"Because...there's evil running around that needs to be chained down to hell."

"Is that so." The man sets his chin on his palm and smiles a wretched smile. "I have seen many a fool lose themself to such a path."

\---

Two years and change later, Kurapika leaps from a caravan and beholds the sparkling metropolis of Osredon. 

He has concealed his flaxen shock of hair with a black turban and replaced his usual robes with a pair of equally dark harem pants, upon the recommendation of his mentor. 

The fortifications of Osredon are far greater than that of Dras-Reulga, but this is to be expected and Kurapika scales the massive rampart with ease. 

The parapet, however, hosts an observative sentry who notes him and moves to sound an alarm; Kurapika silences the sentry with a well-placed blow to the neck and continues stealthily forward.

He hops to an alleyway with no eyes to offer suspicion. He then refers to the tip and heads for the town square, face low and fingers clenched around the studded hilt of a dagger. 

Some sort of festival is in occurrence - the hub is rich with food and drink, and morale is bolstered by the ebullient dancers of the center pavilion.

Kurapika finds the first nearly swallowed by the crowd and the folds of her abaya cloak, but with rose tresses still discernible. Komachine, he thinks as he readies himself to kill her.

\---

Perhaps not an arrow, but a benz knife will work all the same, he supposes.

Lucilfer was tall and proud. He seemed noble in his angel-white tunic and righteous in his ink-black tattoo. His gray eyes pierced Kurapika’s with all the chivalry of a fallen knight; Kurapika saw in them the spider, foreboding, all-powerful, and dead.

A benz knife will work all the same, he supposes.

**Author's Note:**

> I like Kurapika's temperament through the exam arc and in part of the yorknew arc, but I find his motivation of revenge to be contradictory. You'd think that if he wanted to honor the Kurta then he'd find some way to actually honor them - like writing a book on them or collecting the eyes and giving them to a museum, where they and their culture can be respected. But he doesn't try to do that and so it feels like his purpose is more selfish than anything, responding more to the anger in his heart than the disrespecting of his people. But I don't think it's Kurapika's fault for becoming so obsessed over this, his clan was killed when he was 12-14 and he had nobody to help him cope or see a healthier purpose to life, so his irrationality is only natural. I kind of think that he's just an unfortunate character all around, we see his personality when he's considering the troupe and when he's not, and he's definitely a kinder, better person when he's not thinking about revenge. Very unfortunate imo. I wish that the exam arc could've lasted longer so that Gon, Leorio, and Killua could've helped him see a healthier purpose on life.


End file.
